


Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone

by my_name_is_not_five_weenies



Series: Harry Potter But Better (Hopefully) [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon - Abuse, Dumbledore's a bit of a dick, I go on a bit of a ramble about Dumbledore's psychedelic belt buckle, I have no recollection of writing anything about it but I decided to keep it in just because, I'm basically trying to make Harry Potter more inclusive, I'm slowly changing the plot and trying not to leave any holes behind, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Ron's a bit of a dick too, and it makes your eyes bleed, basically it's like if you had to rewrite canon, but you continue doing it for some fucking reason, but you do it for fun, i really just keep adding to this at midnight don't i, i think i swear more in the tags than i do in the actual fic tbh, no beta read we die like prof quirrell, so it's less offensive as homework
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:01:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25075783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_name_is_not_five_weenies/pseuds/my_name_is_not_five_weenies
Summary: (or alternatively Harry Potter and the I-Try-To-Fix-JKR's-Fuckups-By-Adding-More-Diversity-To-The-Books)Harry Potter thinks he's an ordinary boy - until he's rescued by a beetle-eyed gentle giant, enrols into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, makes his first friends, learns to play Quidditch and does battle in a deadly duel.The reason?HARRY POTTER IS A WIZARD!
Series: Harry Potter But Better (Hopefully) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1816036
Kudos: 7





	1. The Boy Who Lived

Mr and Mrs Dursley of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were very normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious because they just didn’t hold with such nonsense.

Mr Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large moustache. Mrs Dursley was a thin and blonde stay-at-home mother with nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent most of her time craning over garden fences, spying on neighbours. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion, there was no finer boy anywhere.

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn’t think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs Potter was Mrs Dursley’s sister, but they hadn’t met for several years; in fact, Mrs Dursley pretended she didn’t have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbours would say if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small child, too, but they had never seen them. This baby was another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn’t want Dudley mixing with a child like that.

Our story starts when Mr and Mrs Dursley woke up on a dull, grey Tuesday, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would be happening all over the country in just a few hours' time. 

Mr Dursley hummed as he picked his most boring tie for work - a grey one with black and white stripes - and Mrs Dursely gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair. None of them noticed a large tawny owl flutter past the window.

At half-past eight, Mr Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked his wife, Petunia on the cheek and tried to kiss Dudley goodbye, but missed, because Dudley was now having yet another tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls. ‘Little tyke,’ chortled Mr Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four’s drive.

It was at the corner of the street that he noticed the first of many signs that there was something peculiar going on - a cat was reading one of those maps that you get in tourist boxes. For a second, Mr Dursley didn’t register what he’d seen - then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn’t a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr Dursley blinked, stopped his car, and stared at the cat. It stared. As Mr Dursley restarted his car and drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his rear-view mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive - no,  _ looking _ at the sign; cats couldn’t read maps  _ or _ signs. Mr Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove towards town he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.

But at the edge of town, drills were driven his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn’t help but notice there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people roaming the streets. People in cloaks. Mr Dursley couldn’t bear people who dressed in funny clothes - the get-ups you saw on those damn young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering quite excitedly together. Mr Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren’t young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! But then it struck Mr Dursley, this was probably some silly stunt - these people were obviously collecting for some charity… Yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a minute later, Mr Dursley arrived in the Grunnings car park, his mind back on drills.

Mr Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn’t, he may have found it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. He didn’t see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though the people in the street did; they pointed and stared as parliaments of owls swept by gracefully. Most of them had never even seen an owl at night, nevermind in broad daylight. Mr Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal owl-free morning. He yelled at five people, made several important phone calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he’d stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery opposite.

He’d forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed another group of them next to the bakery, he eyed them angrily as he walked past. He didn’t know why, but they made him uneasy. They were whispering excitedly too, but he couldn’t see a single collection tin. It was only on his way back to the office, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.

‘The Potters, that’s right, that’s what I heard’

‘-yes, their son, Harry-’

Mr Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded his system. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them but thought the better of it. He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone and had almost finished dialling his home number when he changed his mind. He placed the receiver back into its handset and stroked his moustache, thinking… no, he was being ridiculous. Potter wasn’t an unusual name, he was sure there were lots of people with Potter as a surname who had a child named Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure his nephew  _ was _ called Harry. He’d never even seen the boy, his name might have been Harvey, or Harold. Hell, he wasn’t even sure his nephew  _ was _ his nephew, he might have a niece for all he knew, so there was no point in worrying Mrs Dursley, she always got so upset at the mention of her sister. He didn’t blame her - if  _ he’d _ had a sister like  _ that _ … but all the same, those people in cloaks…

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon, and when he left the building at five o’clock, he was still that engrossed in his thoughts he walked out of the doors, he walked straight into someone. ‘Sorry,’ he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It took a few seconds for Mr Dursley to realise that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn’t seem all that upset at being almost knocked to the ground, it was quite the contrary, his face split into a huge grin and he said in a squeaky voice that made passersby stare: ‘Don’t be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even muggles like you should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!’ And the old man hugged Mr Dursley around his wide middle and wandered off.

Mr Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger, he also thought he’d been called a muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried his way to his car and set off home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped for before because he didn’t approve of imagination.

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw was the tabby cat he’d spotted that morning, that did not improve his mood. It was now sitting on his garden wall, he was sure it was the same one; it had the same glasses-like markings around its eyes.

‘Shoo!’ said Mr Dursley loudly, but the cat didn’t move, it just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behaviour, Mr Dursley wondered. He tried to pull himself together and let himself into the house, he was still set on not mentioning anything to his wife.

Mrs Dursley had had a perfectly normal day, she told Mr Dursley all about Mrs Next Door’s problems with her daughter - she wanted to live her ‘truth’ while her mother still wanted her to be ‘normal’, obviously, Mrs Dursley agreed with Mrs Next Door - and how Dudley had learnt a new word (shan’t!). Mr Dursley tried to act normally, which was harder than it looked, and when Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news: ‘And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation’s owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are not usually seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of reported sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why these owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern.’ The newsreader allowed himself a small smile. ‘Most mysterious, and now over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any showers owl owls tonight, Jim?’

‘Well, Ted, said the weatherman, ‘I don’t know about that, but it’s not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they’ve had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early - it’s not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight.’

Mr Dursley sat frozen in his squishy armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And whispers about a family by the name of the Potters…

Mrs Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good, he’d have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously, ‘Er - Petunia, Dear - you haven’t heard from that sister lately, have you?’ As he had expected, Petunia looked shocked and angry, normally they pretended she didn’t have a sister.

‘No,’ she said sharply, ‘why?’

‘Funny stuff on the news,’ Mr Dursley mumbled, slightly intimidated. ‘Owls... shooting stars… and there  _ was _ a lot of strange-looking people in town today...’

‘ _ So, _ ’ snapped Mrs Dursley.

‘Well, I just thought it might have something to do with... _her_ _lot_.’

Mrs Dursley sipped her tea angrily. Mr Dursley wondered whether he should tell he’d the name ‘Potter’. He decided he didn’t dare, instead, he said, as casually as he could, ‘Their child - he’d be about Dudley’s age by now, wouldn’t he?’

‘I suppose so,’ Mrs Dursley said stiffly.

‘What’s his name again, Howard, isn’t it?’

‘Harry. ‘Ts a nasty common name if you ask me.’

‘Oh yes,’ Mr Dursley said, his heart sinking like an anchor. ‘Yes, I quite agree.’

He didn’t say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed, and while Mrs Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr Dursley crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden, the cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as if waiting for something. Was he imagining things? Did this have something to do with the Potters? If it did… If it got out that they were related to a pair of...He didn’t even want to think it.

The Dursleys got into bed and while Mrs Dursley drifted off quickly, Mr Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last thought before slipping into unconsciousness was that even if the Potters  _ were  _ involved in that day's happenings, there would be no reason for them to come near him and Petunia. The Potters knew very well of what he and Mrs Dursley thought about them, their lifestyle, and their kind. He couldn’t even see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in  _ anything  _ associated with the Potters. He yawned and turned over, it couldn’t affect  _ them _ .

Oh, how wrong he was.

Mr Dursley may have been drifting into an uneasy slumber, but the cat on the wall outside showed no sign of sleepiness, it was wide awake and sat still as a statue, it’s unblinking eyes fixed on the corner of Privet Drive, it didn’t even quiver as a car door slammed, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, the clock had almost reached midnight before the cat moved at all.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, he appeared so suddenly and so silently you’d have thought he’d just popped out of the ground. That cat’s tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this man had been seen in Privet Drive before, and the street never would again. He was tall, thin and extremely old judging by his silver hair and beard, both of which were long enough to tuck into his ornate belt with a psychedelic colour changing buckle. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak with several spells woven and embroidered into it that seemed to shimmer under the moonlight and buckled high-heeled boots. His light blue eyes seemed to twinkle behind half-moon glasses and his nose was extremely long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man’s name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn’t seem to realize that he had arrived in a street where everything about him from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in the huge pockets of his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize that he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat which was still staring at him from the other end of the street, for some reason the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. 

He chuckled and muttered, ‘I should have known.’

He found what he was looking for in his pocket, it seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter, he flicked it open, held it up in the air and clicked it. The nearest lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again - the next lamp’s light was consumed by the darkness. He clicked the Put-Outer twelve times until the only visible lights were two minuscule pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone had looked out of their window now, they wouldn’t have been able to see what was going on the pavement below. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street towards number four where he sat on the wall next to the cat, he didn’t look at it but after a moment he began talking to it.

‘Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall.’ He turned to smile at the tabby cat, but it had gone, replaced by a rather stern-looking woman who was wearing square glasses which were exactly the shape of the markings the cat had around its eyes. She too was wearing a cloak, but her’s was emerald green instead of the man’s eye-melting orange. Her greying black hair was pulled into a tight bun and she looked distinctly ruffled.

‘How did you know it was me?’ She asked.

‘My dear Professor, I’ve never seen a cat sit so stiffly.’

‘You’d be stiff if you’d been sitting on a brick wall all day.’

‘All day? Why haven’t you been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here.’

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily. ‘Oh yes, everyone’s celebrating, all right,’ she said impatiently ‘You’d think they’d be a bit more careful, but no - even the muggles have started noticing that something’s going on. It was on their  _ news _ .’ She jerked her head back at the Dursleys’ living-room window. ‘I heard it. Flocks of owls … shooting stars … well, they’re not completely stupid. Shooting stars down Kent -I’ll bet that was Dedalus Diggle, he never had much sense.’

‘You can’t blame them,’ said Dumbledore gently. ‘We’ve had so little to celebrate for eleven years.’

‘I know that,’ said Professor McGonagall icily, ‘but that’s no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out in the streets in broad daylight, swapping rumours and not even dressed in muggle clothes.’

She threw a sharp sideways glance at Dumbledore as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn’t, so she went on: ‘A fine thing it would be,  _ if _ on the same day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared, at last, the muggles found out all about us. I suppose he really  _ has _ gone, Dumbledore?’

‘It certainly seems so,’ said Dumbledore. ‘We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a sherbert lemon?’

‘ _ A what? _ ’

‘A sherbert lemon, they’re a kind of Muggle sweet I’m rather fond of.’

‘No thank you,’ Professor McGonagall said coldly. ‘As I say, even if You-Know-Who  _ has _ gone-’

‘My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this “You-Know-Who” nonsense - I’ve been trying to get people to call him by his proper name:  _ Voldemort _ .’ Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two sherbert lemons, seemed not to notice. ‘It all gets so confusing if you keep saying “You-Know-Who”. I’ve never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort’s name.’

‘I know  _ you _ haven’t,’ said Professor McGonagall, sounding half-exasperated, half-admiring, ‘but _ you’re _ different. Everyone knows  _ you’re _ the only one You-Know - oh all right,  _ Voldemort _ \- was frightened of.’

‘You flatter me,’ said Dumbledore smugly. ‘Voldemort had powers I never had.’

‘Only because you’re too - well -  _ noble _ to use them.’

‘You’re lucky it’s dark, I haven’t blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs.’

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, ‘The owls are  _ nothing _ to the rumours flying around. Do you know what everyone’s saying? About why he’s disappeared? About what finally stopped him?’ It seemed that McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold hard wall all day, for neither as cat nor woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever ‘everyone’ was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another sherbert lemon and was subsequently not paying attention.

‘What they were  _ saying, _ ’ she pressed on, ‘is that last night Voldemort turned up at Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumour is that Lily and James are - are - that they’re -  _ dead. _ ’ 

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped. ‘Lily and James… I didn’t want to believe it… But- oh, Albus.’

Dumbledore rea hed out and patted her on the shoulder. I know, I know.’ He said heavily.

Professor McGonagall’s voice trembled as she went on, ‘That’s not all. They’re saying he tried to kill the Potter’s son, Harry. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t kill that little boy. No one knows why or how, but they’re saying that when  _ he _ tried to kill Harry Potter, Voldemort’s power somehow broke - and that’s why he’s gone.’

Dumbledore nodded.

‘It’s - it’s  _ true _ ?’ Professor McGonagall faltered. ‘After all he’s done… all the people he’s killed... he couldn’t kill this little boy? It’s just astounding how of all the things to stop him- but how in the name of the gods did Harry survive?’

‘We can only guess,’ said Dumbledore, ‘We may never know.’

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden pocket watch from one of his many pockets and examined it. It was a strange device - it had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets circled the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, as he put it back in his pocket and said, ‘Hagrid’s late. I suppose it was he who told you I’d be here, by the way?’

‘Yes,’ said Professor McGonagall. ‘And I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me  _ why _ you’re here of all places?’

‘I’ve come to bring young Harry to his Aunt and Uncle. They’re his only family he has left now.’

‘You can’t- you can’t mean the people who live  _ here _ ?’ Cried Professor McGonagall, ‘What of young Sirius Black, his Godfather,  _ he  _ would be a better option than them!’ 

Dumbledore remained silent. 

‘Oh Dumbledore, you can’t. I’ve been watching them all day. You couldn’t find a couple who are less like us. And they’ve got this son - I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street screaming for sweets. Harry Potter, come and live  _ here _ !’ 

‘It’s the best place for him,’ said Dumbledore firmly. ‘His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he’s older. I’ve written them a letter.’ He added on.

‘A letter?’ Repeated McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the cold brick wall. ‘Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter. These people will never understand him! He’ll be famous - a legend - I wouldn’t be surprised if today would be known as Harry Potter Day in the future - there will be books written about him - every child in the world will know his name!’

‘Exactly,’ said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. It would be enough to turn any boy’s head. Famous before he can walk and talk for something that he won’t even remember! Can you see how much better off he would be, growing up away from all of that until he’s ready to take it?’

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said ‘Yes - yes, you’re, right, of course. But how is the boy getting here Dumbledore?’ She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Harry in it (which, at this point, could be possible).

‘Hagrid’s bringing him.’

‘Do you think it wise to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?’

‘I would trust Hagrid with my life,’ said Dumbledore, concealing his eye roll in the inky blackness of the night.

‘I’m not saying that his heart isn’t in the right place,’ said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, ‘but you can’t pretend that he’s not careless. He does tend to - what in the name of Merlin is that noise?’

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky- and a huge motorbike fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them with an ungraceful thump. 

If the motorbike was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide with a kind face and long wild tangles of bushy black hair and a beard covered most of his features. He had hands the size of dustbin lids and his feet in their brown leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms, he carried a small bundle of blankets.

‘Hagrid,’ said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. ‘At last. And where did you get that motorbike?’

‘Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir,’ said the giant climbing carefully off of the motorbike as he spoke, ‘Young Sirius Black lent it to me, though he didn’t seem to be in a good state o’ mind. I got ‘im, sir.’

‘No problems, where there?’

‘No, sir - house was almost destroyed but I got him out all righ’ before the muggles started swarmin’ around. He fell asleep as we was flyin’ o’er Bristol.’

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible beneath the coverings, lay a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of his jet black hair over his forehead, they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

  
  


‘Is that where -?’ Whispered Professor McGonagall.

‘Yes,’ said Dumbledore, ‘he will have that scar forever.’

‘Couldn’t you do something about it, Dumbledore?’

‘Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Scars can come in useful. I have one myself just above my left knee which is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well - give him here, Hagrid. We’d better get this over and done with.’

Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and started heading towards the Dursley’s home.

‘Could I - could I say goodbye to him, sir?’ asked Hagrid.

He bent his great shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.

‘Shhh!’ Hissed McGonagall, ‘you’ll wake the Muggles!’

‘S-s-s-sorry,’ sobbed Hagrid taking out a large spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. ‘But I c-ca- But I can’t stand it - Lily an’ James dead - and poor li’le Harry off t’ live with muggles-’

‘Yes, yes, it’s all very sad, but get a grip on yourself Hagrid. Or we’ll be found,’ whispered Professor McGonagall patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall, his cloak snagging slightly and the rough brick, and walked to the front door. He laid Harry on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry’s blankets and then returned to the over two. 

For a full minute, the three stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid’s shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore’s eyes seemed to go out. ‘Well,’ said Dumbledore finally, ‘that’s that, We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations.’ 

‘Yeah,’ said Hagrid in a very muffled voice. ‘I’d best get this bike away, G’night, Professor McGonagall - Professor Dumbledore, sir’

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve Hagrid swung himself onto the motorbike and kicked the engine into life; with a healthy roar, it rose into the air and off into the night.

‘I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall’ said Dumbledore, nodding at her, McGonagall blew her nose in response

Dumbledore turned and walked down the street. On the corner, he stopped and took out his silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once and twelve balls of flickering orange sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly once again and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four. With one last look at the boy he turned on his heel and with a swish of the breeze, he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the pristine hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and orderly under the inky sky that now had streaks of the golden sun rising through the dark, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen, Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without stirring. One small hand clasped on the letter beside him not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours time by his aunt’s scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being poked and pinched by his cousin Dudley… He couldn’t know that at this very moment people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: ‘ To Harry Potter - the boy who lived!’


	2. The Vanishing Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and the Dursleys go to the zoo and strange things occur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was surprisingly short compared to the last one lmao, it's only seven pages compared to the last one's nine and it's 1500 words shorter which is good for me, but it was still a surprise.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

Nearly ten years had passed since the Dursleys had woken up to their nephew on the front step, but Privet Drive had barely changed. The sun rose on the same tidy front gardens and lit up the uniform brass number four on the Dursley’s front door; it crept into their living room which was almost exactly the same as it had been on the night when Mr Dursley had seen the fateful news report about owls. Only the photographs had changed, ten years ago, there had been lots of pictures of what looked like a large pink boy wearing different-coloured bobble hats. But Dudley Dursely was no longer a baby, now the photographs showed a large blonde boy riding his first bicycle, on a roundabout at the travelling fair, playing a computer game with his father, being hugged and kissed by his mother. The room held no sign of there being another boy living in the house.

Yes, Harry Potter was still there, he hadn’t been abandoned on the front step of an orphanage no matter how much his aunt wanted to do so, he was asleep at the moment, but not for long. His aunt Petunia was awake and it was her shrill voice which made the first sound of the day.

‘Up! Get up! Now!’

Harry woke with a start, his aunt rapped on the door again. 

‘Up!’ She screeched. Harry heard her making her way to the kitchen and then the sound of a frying pan being pulled from its wrack and put on the cooker. He rolled back on his and tried to remember the dream he had been having, it had been a good one. There had been a flying motorbike in it. He had a funny feeling he’d had the same dream before.

His aunt was back outside his door. ‘Are you up yet?’ she demanded.

‘Nearly,’ said Harry.

‘Well hurry up, I want you to look at the bacon. And don’t you  _ dare _ let it burn. I want everything perfect on Duddy’s birthday.’

Harry groaned.

‘What did you say?’ His aunt snapped through the door.

‘Nothing, nothing...’

Dudley’s birthday - how could he have forgotten? Harry eased himself off of his small mattress and started looking for socks. He found a pair under his mattress and, after pulling a spider off one of them, he put them on. Harry was used to spiders because the cupboard under the stairs was full of them, and that was where he slept.

When he was dressed he went down the hall to the kitchen. The table was almost hidden with presents of varying sizes. It looked as if Dudley had got the new computer he wanted, not to mention the second television and the racing bike. Why Dudley wanted a racing bike was anyone’s guess, as Dudley hated exercise - unless of course, it involved beating up somebody. Dudley’s favourite punching bag was Harry, but he couldn’t catch him more often than not. He didn’t look like it, but Harry was very fast.

Perhaps it had something to do with living in a dark cupboard for the better part of his life but Harry had always been small and skinny for his age and he looked even more small and skinny than he was because he was forced to wear Dudley’s old clothes and Dudley was about four times larger than he was, in both width and height. Harry had a thin face, knobbly knees, black hair, and bright green eyes. He wore wire-framed round glasses held together with a lot of sellotape because of all the times Dudley had punched him on the nose. The only thing Harry really liked about his appearance was a very thin scar on his forehead shaped like a lightning bolt, he thought it looked very badass and had had it for as long as he could remember. The first question he could remember asking was asking his Aunt Petunia how he got it.

‘In a car crash when your parents died,’ she had replied before saying, ‘and don’t ask questions.’

_ Don’t ask questions -  _ that was the first rule to a peaceful life with the Dursleys, if he didn’t obey that rule…. Well, we’ll get into that later.

Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen as Harry was turning over the bacon. ‘Comb your hair!’ He barked as a way of a morning greeting. About once a week, Uncle Vernon peered over the top of his newspaper and shouted that Harry needed a haircut. Harry must have had more haircuts than the rest of the boys in his class put together, yet there was never any difference, his hair simply grew all over the place.

Harry was frying eggs by the time Dudley arrived in the kitchen with his mother, Dudley looked a lot like Uncle Vernon - he had a large pink face, not much neck, small watery eyes, and thick blonde hair on his head which he inherited from his Aunt Petunia. She often said Dudley looked like a baby angel, Harry thought he looked like a pig in a wig.

Harry put the plates of bacon and eggs on the table, which was quite difficult as presents took up most of the space. Dudley, meanwhile, was counting them. His face fell.

‘Thirty-six,’ he said looking up at his parents, ‘that’s two less than last year.’

‘Darling, you haven’t counted Auntie Maggie’s present, see, it’s under this big present from Mummy and Daddy.’

‘Alright, thirty-seven then,’ said Dudley, going red in the face. Harry, who felt a huge Dudley-tantrum coming on, began wolfing down his bacon as fast as possible in case Dudley flipped the table. 

Aunt Petunia obviously smelled danger too, as she said quickly, ‘And we’ll buy you two more presents while we’re out today. How does that sound, Popkin?  _ Two _ more presents, is that all right?’

Dudley thought for a moment. It looked like hard work, Harry thought. Finally, he said slowly, ‘So, I’ll have thirty… thirty…’

‘Thirty-nine, sweetums,’ said Aunt Petunia.

‘Oh,’ Dudley sat down heavily and grabbed the nearest parcel, ‘okay then.’

Uncle Vernon chuckled. ‘Little tyke wants his money’s worth, just like his father. Atta boy, Dudley!‘ He ruffled Dudley’s hair.

At that moment, the telephone rang and Aunt Petunia went up to answer it while Harry and Uncle Vernon watched Dudley a racing bike, a cine-camera, a remote-control aeroplane, sixteen new video games, and a video recorder. He was ripping the wrapping paper off of a golden wristwatch when Aunt Petunia walked back into the room looking like she’d just eaten a lemon.

‘Bad news, Vernon,’ she said, Mrs Figg’s broken her leg, she can’t take him.’ She jerked her head in Harry’s direction.

Dudley’s mouth fell open in horror but Harry’s heart gave a leap. Every year on Dudley’s birthday, his parents took him and a friend out for the day, to adventure and theme parks, hamburger bars, or the cinema. Every year, Harry was left behind with Mrs Figg, a mad old lady who lived two streets away, Harry hated going there, the whole house smelled of cabbage and Mrs Fiigg forced him to look at photographs of all the cats she’d ever owned. The only part of going to her house he enjoyed, was when she offered him stale cake and tea about halfway through his visit. The lavender scent of the fondant flowers on top of the cake was always so calming. The bittersweet of the flower’s taste never failed to relax him and then, somehow, he didn’t mind learning about her cats with heavy eyes under the heavy scent of lavender and the heavy, sleep-inducing taste of the tea.

‘Now what?’ said Aunt Petunia, looking furiously at Harry as though he’d planned this. Harry knew he should be sorry that Mrs Figg had broken her leg, but it wasn’t easy when he reminded himself that it would be a whole year before he had to look at Mr Tibbles, Snowy, Snowball, Mr Paws, Tufty, Smokey, Misty, and Coco again.

‘We could phone Marge,’ Uncle Vernon suggested.

‘Don’t be silly, Vernon, she’d kill the boy.’

The Durselys often spoke about Harry like this, as though he wasn’t there - or rather, as though he was something very nasty and beneath them, like a slug. 

‘What about whats-her-name, your friend, Yvonne?’ 

‘On holiday in Majorca,’ snapped Aunt Petunia.

‘You could just leave me here,’ Harry put in hopefully (he’d be able to watch the television and maybe even have a go on Dudley’s computer).

Aunt Petunia looked like she’d swallowed another lemon. ‘And come back and find this house in ruins?’ She snarled.

‘I won’t blow up the house,’ said Harry, but they weren’t listening.

‘I suppose we could take him to the zoo,’ said Aunt Petunia slowly, ‘and leave him in the car.’

‘The car’s new, he’s not sitting in it alone.’

Dudley began to cry loudly, in fact, he wasn’t crying. It had been years since he’d properly cried, but he knew if he screwed up his face and wailed, his mother would give him anything he wanted. 

‘Dinky Duddyums, don’t cry, mummy won’t let him spoil your birthday!’ She cried, flinging her arms around him in a comforting hug.

‘I… Don’t… Want…. Him… T-To come!’ Dudley wailed between huge pretend sobs, ‘He always s-spoils everything!’ He sent Harry a nasty smile through a gap in his mother’s arms.

Just then the doorbell rang - ‘Oh Good Lord, they’re here already!’ said Aunt Petunia frantically and a moment later, Dudley’s best friend, Piers Polikss, walked in with his mother, Piers was a scrawny boy with a face like a rat - he was usually the one who held people’s arms behind their backs while Dudley hit them. Dudley stopped pretending to cry immediately.

Half an hour later, Harry couldn’t believe his luck, he was sitting in the back of the Dursely’s car with Piers and Dudley on the way to the zoo for the first time in his life! His aunt and uncle hadn’t been able to think of anything else to do with him, but before they’d left, Uncle Vernon had pulled Harry aside. ‘I’m warning you,’ he’d threatened, putting his large purple face up close to Harry’s, ‘I’m warning you now, boy, any funny business and you’ll be in that cupboard from now ‘til Christmas.’

‘I’m not going to do anything,’ said Harry, ‘honestly.’

But Uncle Vernon didn’t believe him, No one ever did.

The problem was, strange things happened around Harry and it was just no good telling the Dursleys he didn’t make it happen. 

Once, Aunt Petunia, tired of Harry coming back from the barbers looking as though he hadn’t been at all, had taken a pair of craft scissors and cut his hair so short he was almost bald bar his fringe which she’d left to ‘cover his horrible scar’. Dudley had laughed himself silly at Harry who’d spent a sleepless night tossing and turning imagining the kids at school pointing and laughing at him, he was already laughed at for his baggy clothes and Sellotaped glasses. The next morning, however, he awoke to find his hair exactly as it had been before Aunt Petunia had shorn it off. He’d been given a week in his cupboard with one small meal a day for that, even though he tried to explain, he  _ couldn’t  _ explain how it had grown back so quickly.

Another time, Aunt Petunia had tried to force him into a revolting old jumper of Dudley’s (burgundy with bright orange bobbles), but the more she tried to pull it over his head, the smaller it became until it would have better fitted a sock puppet, but definitely wouldn’t have fit Harry. Aunt Petunia had decided it must have shrunk in the wash and, to his great relief, Harry wasn’t punished.

On the other hand, he’d got into terrible trouble for being found on the roof of the school kitchen. Dudley’s gang had been chasing him as usual when, much to Harry’s surprise, there he was sitting on the chimney. The Dursleys had received a very angry letter from Harry’s headmistress telling them Harry had been climbing school buildings. But all he’d tried to do (as he shouted to Uncle Vernon through the slats in his locked cupboard door) was jump behind the big bins outside the kitchen. Harry supposed that the wind must have caught him mid-jump.

But today, nothing could go wrong. It was even worth being with Dud ley and Piers to be spending the day somewhere that wasn’t school, his cupboard, or Mrs Figgs cabbage smelling home.

While he drove, Uncle Vernon complained to Aunt Petunia, he liked to complain about things: people at work, Harry, the council, Harry, the bank, and Harry were a few of his favourites. This morning, the subject was motorbikes.

‘Bloody bikers roaring along like maniacs, the young hooligans,’ he said as a motorbike overtook them.

‘I had a dream about a motorbike,’ said Harry to himself, remembering suddenly, ‘it was flying.’

Uncle Vernon nearly crashed the car, he turned in his seat and yelled ‘MOTORBIKES DON’T FLY!’

Dudley and Piers sniggered.

‘I know they don’t,’ said Harry, ‘it was only a dream.’

But he wished he hadn’t said anything, if there was one thing the Dursleys hated more than him asking questions, it was him talking about anything acting in a way it shouldn’t, no matter if it were a dream or a cartoon. They seemed to think he would get dangerous ideas.

It was a very sunny Saturday and the zoo was crowded with families. The Dursleys bought Dudley and Piers large chocolate ice creams and then because the smiling lady in the van asked what Harry wanted before they could hurry on, they bought him a cheap lemon ice lolly. It wasn’t bad either, Harry thought, licking it while they watched a gorilla scratching its head. The gorilla looked remarkably like Dudley, except it wasn’t blonde.

Harry had the best morning he’d had in a long time, though he was careful to walk a safe distance away from Dudley and Piers, who were getting bored of the animals by lunchtime, so they wouldn’t fall back into their habit of using him as a punching bag. They ate in the zoo restaurant and when Dudley had a tantrum because his knickerbocker glory wasn’t big enough, Uncle Vernon bought him another one and Harry was allowed to finish off the first.

Harry felt afterwards that he should have known it was too good to last.

After lunch, they went to the reptile house. It was cool and dark in there, with lit windows all along the walls. Behind the glass, all sorts of snakes and lizards were crawling and slivering over bits of wood and stone. Dudley and Piers wanted to see the huge poisonous cobras and thick man-crushing pythons. Dudley quickly found the largest snake in the place. It could have wrapped its body twice around Uncle Vernon’s car and crushed it into a dust bin - but at the moment, it didn’t look in the mood. In fact, it was fast asleep.

Dudley stood with his nose pressed against the glass, staring at the brown coils.

‘Make it move,’ he whined at his father. Uncle Vernon tapped on the glass but the snake didn’t budge. ‘Do it again,’ Dudley ordered and Uncle Vernon rapped on the glass smartly with his knuckles once more, but the snake snoozed on. ‘This is boring,’ Dudley moaned and he shuffled away.

Harry moved in front of the tank and looked intently at the snake. He wouldn’t have been surprised if it had died of boredom. It had no company except stupid people drumming their fingers on the glass trying to disturb it all day long. It must be worse than having a cupboard as a bedroom where the only visitor he got was Aunt Petunia hammering on the door to wake him up, but at least he got to visit the rest of the house, he thought.

The snake suddenly opened its beady eyes. Slowly, very slowly, it raised its head until its eyes were on level with Harry’s.

_ It winked. _

Harry stared. Then he looked quickly around to see if anyone else was watching, they weren’t, he looked towards the tank once more and winked back.

The snake jerked its head towards Dudley and Uncle Vernon then raised its eyes towards the ceiling as if to say _'I get that all the time.'_

_ ‘ _ I know, _ ’  _ Harry murmured through the glass, although he wasn’t too sure that the snake could hear him. ‘It must be so annoying.’

The snake nodded vigorously.

‘Where do you come from anyway?’ Harry asked.

The snake jerked its tail at the little sign next to the glass. Harry stared at it.

**_Boa Constrictor_ **

**_Brazil_ **

‘Was it nice there?’

The boa constrictor once again jerked it's tail at the sign again and Harry read on

**_This specimen was bred in captivity_ **

‘Oh, so you’ve never been to Brazil?’

As the snake shook its head, a deafening shout behind Harry made both of them jump. ‘DUDLEY, MR DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON’T  _ BELIEVE  _ WHAT IT’S DOING’

Dudley came waddling towards them from the lizard section as fast as he could. ‘Out of the way, you,’ he said, punching Harry in the gut. Caught by surprise, Harry fell hard on the concrete floor. What happened next happened so fast no one saw what happened - one second, Piers and Dudley were leaning with their noses on the glass, the next, they leapt back with screams of horror.

Harry sat up and gasped, the glass front of the boa constrictor’s tank had vanished. The great snake began uncoiling itself rapidly before slithering out onto the floor. Harry could have sworn he heard a low hissing voice that said ‘ _ Brazil here I come… obrigada amiga.’ _

The keeper of the reptile house was in shock. ‘But the glass,’ he kept saying, ‘where did the glass go?’

The zoo director himself made Aunt Petunia a strong cup of tea while he apologised over and over again. Piers and Dudley could only gibber. As far as Harry could tell, the snake hadn’t done anything but snap playfully at their heels as it passed, but by the time they were all back in Uncle Vernon’s car, Dudey was telling them how it had nearly bitten off his leg. But worst of all for Harry at least, Piers was calming down enough to say ‘Harry was talking to it, weren’t you, Harry?’ With a smirk on his obnoxious face.

Uncle Vernon waited until Piers was safely out of the house before starting on Harry. He was so angry he could barely speak. All he could manage to say was ‘Go - cupboard - stay - no meals,’ before he collapsed in a chair and Aunt Petunia had to run and get him a large brandy.

Harry lay in his dark cupboard days later, his stomach rumbling and wishing he had a watch. He didn’t know what time it was and he couldn’t risk sneaking to the kitchen to get some food before the Dursleys were asleep.

He’d lived with the Durselys for almost eleven years, eleven long miserable years. He’d been with them for as long as he could remember, ever since his parents had died in a car crash. He couldn’t remember being in a car when his parents had died, but sometimes, when he strained his memory during the long hours in his cupboard, he came up with a strange vision: a blinding flash of green light and a burning pain on his forehead. This, he assumed, was the crash, though he couldn’t imagine where all the green light came from, a traffic light maybe. He couldn’t remember his parents at all, his aunt and uncle never spoke about them, and, of course, they forbade him from asking questions.

There were no photographs of them in the house.

When he was younger, Harry had dreamed and dreamed of some unknown relation, an aunt or uncle or cousin from his father’s side to whisk him away, but it had never happened; the Durselys were the only family. Yet sometimes he hoped that the strangers on the street that seemed to know him would do just that, take him away. Although they were very strange strangers, so he thought not. For example, and a tiny old man in a violet top hat had bowed to him once while out shopping, Aunt Petunia, after asking Harry and Dudley if they knew him, had rushed them out of the Tescos without buying anything, the small half-loaf of bread that Harry had stuffed under his huge shirt for _just in case_ aside. A wild-looking woman dressed in all green had once waved merrily at him on the bus. A bald man in a very long purple cloak had shaken his hand in the street the other day and then walked away without a word. the weirdest thing about these people was the way they seemed to vanish the second Harry attempted to get a closer look.

At school, however, Harry had no one. Everybody knew that Dudley’s gang hated that odd Harry Potter in his baggy old clothes and broken glasses, and nobody liked to disagree with Dudley’s gang, they had a reign of terror in the playground that all were too scared of them to try and overthrow them. However their reign would be coming to an end soon as they go to secondary school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect the next chapter two months.
> 
> Edit: You probably won't be getting a new chapter this month, school and homework and my mental health have been kicking my ass

**Author's Note:**

> You would not believe how many migraines this has given me all ready  
> Also, if you want to visit my Tumblr dedicated to this and it's planning and stuff, see me @rewriting-harry-potter  
> Expect updates every month or two, sorry y'all are gonna be kept waiting, I procrastinate a lot


End file.
